


In Need Of You

by Enochianess



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Coping, Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reunions, Touch-Starved, VERY brief mention of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7191938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky likes to keep himself busy. He likes having a routine. His days are boring and repetitive, but they're safe and that's all he cares about. He works out, he eats, he sleeps.</p><p>Snippets of Bucky's time in Bucharest before everything turns to shit.<br/>Bonus: a slightly different Steve/Bucky reunion</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Need Of You

**Author's Note:**

> The mention of self-harm is very brief and completely non-descriptive. I am triggered easily myself, so it is barely even touched upon.

_The thing I'm most afraid of is me. Of not knowing what I'm going to do. Of not knowing what I'm doing right now._

_—_ Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

* * *

_Bucky limps away from the man in the suit_   _and then just keeps walking. He's too exhausted to run, but he knows he cannot stay by the riverside, cannot rest. They'll be after him the moment they realise he's gone. His shoulder hurts something awful and he knows he needs to pop it back in. He keeps walking and h_ _is eyes are burning like he needs to cry, but at this point he no longer knows how. He doesn't understand the rush of emotions, doesn't understand why he's seeing flashes of bloodied knuckles and back alleys and a small, skinny blond. He keeps walking and he's confused, doesn't really know where he is or what he's supposed to do now he's free. His mind is fracturing and it hurts. Everything hurts. He doesn't know what made him save the man in the suit and he worries about him laying there all alone, but he doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand anything. He keeps walking._

* * *

Upon arriving at Otopeni Henri Coandă International Airport by bus, Bucky walks slowly through the mass of people, so as not to draw any attention, and catches a second bus to take him into Bucharest. It's early morning and the sun is wintery, thin and low in the sky. It's significantly colder than it had been in Athens and Bucky finds himself burrowing deeper into his jacket. A cold sweat is forming on his skin, not only because of the fever he's falling victim to, but also from the abject fear that someone is following him with the intention of taking him down. He has been so careful as he's made his way through Europe over the past couple of years, picking countries and cities at random and always hiding in the shadows. He has surprised himself with the number of languages he's discovered he can speak and the ease within which he's been able to navigate each city whilst being unseen. It frightens him at times, how much he can do with no recollection of ever learning how, but he has to admit that he's thankful for all of Hydra's training now.

His hand shakes when he reaches up to take hold of the handlebar attached to the roof of the bus. He looks discretely around the crowded space, his eyes clocking the exits and searching the passengers for anything unusual or out of place. His heart beat begins to slow slightly when he confirms that no one is looking at him and he seems to still be uncompromised. He doesn't feel anymore relaxed though. He never does, but especially not in public. It feels like he has a dozen guns pointed at his head and he's just waiting for one of them to fire. He's never sure which direction the threat is coming from and he finds that he is gradually shrinking more and more into himself. He thinks one day there will be nothing left of him.

Bucky's been to Bucharest before, about five months ago, and no one had bothered him. He figures it is as safe as anywhere and those who are after him might be thrown off by his change in pattern. He's never returned to a location before. Out of all the places he's stayed, this city is his favourite. His apartment—safe house—is the first place that has really felt like home to him and he had found it difficult to leave, even though he has trained himself to always be careful to remain detached. It was where he'd reclaimed some of his best memories and so he's hopeful that this time it might trigger some more. It's been a rough month and he could really do with something good again.

Once he's arrived at Piata Unirii in central Bucharest and made his way into the Old Town, Bucky stops in the street market to gather some supplies. He buys bread and milk and some fresh fruit; he takes a whole bag of plums after the grocer offers him one for free. Any act of kindness still feels very foreign to Bucky. He feels embarrassed by how hoarse his voice sounds whenever he speaks, his throat dry from disuse. He thinks he can count on two hands the number of times he's spoken over the past month. It feels frightening to speak, unnatural, and as if someone will immediately recognise the sound of it and take him away. He feels a strange sense of pride when he leaves the market with his produce.

His fever is getting worse and he finds himself shivering as he walks through the narrow streets. It's a beautiful town and so very different from the rest of the city. He feels safer than he did in Athens, but he still remains on high alert until he trudges into his building and up the many flights of stairs.

He'd found the apartment all but abandoned the last time he was in the city, and the landlord had had no qualms about giving it to him for a discounted price because of its terrible condition. With the money Bucky had stolen from Hydra, he had no problem paying the rent. It was a simple one-room place, but Bucky didn't need much. If anything, the small space made him feel safer; if anyone was in the apartment, he'd know about it no problem. The bathroom was pretty gross and there was damp all over the ceiling, but it was better than some of the places he'd stayed in when he was with Hydra. It was Bucky's home.

He's hesitant as he closes the front door behind him now, pausing as he listens for any movement. Once he deems the apartment empty, he begins his slow ritual walk around the inside of it, his fingers tracing and scanning the cracks and crevices in the walls for bugs. He turns up blank and, with relief, he places his backpack down carefully beside the door and then collapses on the mattress. He climbs inside the sleeping bag, snuggling down until it's just below his ears, and presses his face into the pillow. It all smells faintly of mould, but Bucky feels too bad to care. He didn't think it was possible to get sick with the serum, but he knows his dose was faulty and imperfect. He wonders if being out of cryo for so long was causing defects. He doesn't remember how long he had usually been kept awake between freezes. Although he's getting a lot of his memories back, grasping his sense of time was still a struggle.

Bucky stares at the pile of books beside his mattress with interest—since remembering he liked to read, he spent most of his time with his nose buried in a book—but when it comes to actually moving to get one, he finds he has little motivation. He stares at nothing for a while, just listening to the busy streets below and the arguing couple above. He likes to listen, to hear what a normal life sounds like. He knows he had one of them once, remembers quite a lot of it now, but none of it feels like it really belonged to him. He's been thinking of himself as Bucky for a while, but the Bucky he is now is not the Bucky he was then. The Bucky he is now is a mixture of what Hydra made him and the parts of the old him that had managed to come out the other side of the meat grinder. He doesn't think Steve will be satisfied with just the shell of his friend, although Bucky knows the Captain is still searching for him, will probably always be searching for him. The one comfort that Bucky has is that the Steve alive today, the one who is following diligently behind him, isn't the Steve he remembers either. They've both changed. History has altered them both.

* * *

_The Asset feels naked out of his uniform in public. He doesn't remember being around other people and being so vulnerable. He's uneasy. His casual jean and jacket ensemble will do little to protect him if someone opens fire; the nomex thread and kevlar fiber that made up his suit provided resistance, gave him the necessary advanced flexibility he needed for any close quarters combat. He's more than capable of fighting without it, and he knows Hydra will be laying low for a while, but he still feels too exposed. Hydra might seem like it's disappeared, but he knows they'll be looking for him. And he's pretty sure the Captain from the helicarrier will probably be after him too, as well as the organisation he worked for._

_He tries to keep his head down, his cap pulled low over his eyes to make him a little more inconspicuous, his hands buried deep inside his jacket pockets. It's not cold in D.C., but he knows the moment someone catches sight of his left hand, he'll be taken away again. He shouldn't even still be in the city, should be far, far away from here; preferably somewhere off the map. He can't though; not before he knows the truth._

Bucky Barnes

1917-1944

When Bucky Barnes first met Steve Rogers on the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond... 

* * *

Bucky likes to keep himself busy. He likes having a routine. His days are boring and repetitive, but they're  _safe_ and that's all he cares about. He works out, he eats, he sleeps. If he's feeling brave, sometimes he ventures out into the town. The few days—although they're becoming much more frequent now—when he's feeling okay, he likes to go running. The problem is the fear, the thought that someone might be chasing him. He's fast and strong, he knows that, but it doesn't make the fear any less prominent. Hydra can catch him. They always catch him eventually, no matter how much stronger and capable his body is. They have eyes and ears everywhere and someone is always ready to just reach out and snatch him away. _Cut off one head, two shall take its place._ It makes him tremble whenever he thinks about it. That's why he'd rather stay inside. He just wants to be  _safe._

* * *

_Bucky wipes a hand over the steamed-up mirror, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as he's met with his own reflection. The light of the motel bathroom is dim, flickering intermittently, casting him in a dark yellow light that makes him look sallow and exhausted. He brushes his wet hair back off his face, tucking it behind his ears so he can get a proper look at the person staring back at him. He lifts both hands up to his face, flinching slightly at the sight of his silver, bionic arm; it is the only thing he truly recognises, the only thing he is able to identify as part of who he is, and he hates it. He traces the lines of his forehead with his fingertips, smooths out the crease between his brows. He runs the rough pads down the slender line of his nose, along both cheekbones until they meet the soft line of hair at his temples. He glides them under his eyes, where the skin is delicate and bruised-looking from the string of sleepless nights. His eyes are a stormy sky blue, cold and calculating as he watches himself explore the plains of his face. He scratches his short nails through the prickly hairs of his beard, feels the way each strand catches on his fingertips and springs back into place. He touches his lips, surprised by how soft they feel, lets himself linger on the shape of them. Nothing about this face is familiar._

_He grits his teeth as he lets his gaze fall lower, his eyes tracing the ugly, pink, scarred skin, rough where the muscle attaches to cold metal. He rolls the shoulder slowly, exercising the joint as he rotates the silver limb. He clenches the hand into a fist, releases it, and then clenches it again, the movement mechanical. He lashes out, his fist flying forward until the cold, metal knuckles hit the mirror, the glass smashing into a hundred glittering pieces. He feels no pain from his outburst, and it haunts him._

_Bucky pulls the towel from around his waist, his one flesh and bone hand shaking as he does so. He pulls on a pair of boxers, dark grey track pants, a tight-fitting t-shirt, a hoodie, a jacket to go over the top. He pulls on his socks, slips on his sneakers, and then puts a thin pair of dark gloves over his hands. He feels safer beneath the layers, as if covering himself up will erase all that he is beneath._

You know me.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

_It seems familiar. It feels comfortable and worn tumbling from his lips, as if they remember how to form the words from sense memory alone. He can tell he's uttered them countless times. He closes his eyes, listening intently as he whispers the names over and over to himself in the darkness, just letting the weight of rightness weigh heavily in his mind. But with those feelings also comes a strong sense of shame, a murmur from somewhere deep within telling him he doesn't deserve the name. James Buchanan Barnes was a good man. He was a sergeant, a soldier who fought for his country and protected his friends. Bucky didn't remember a lot of who he was, but he remembered enough to know that he was no longer James Buchanan Barnes, if he ever really had been._

_Bucky still can't quite get his head around it, still desperately fights the way his mind seems to be fraying at the edges, layers peeling back to reveal memory after ugly memory. They don't come back to him in small, gradual flickers either. They pour over him like tidal waves, sudden and crushing, leaving him gasping as he tries to find something with which he can hang on to, just a sliver of something that's actually tangible. He's confused and frightened and angry, like a hunted animal with no means of escape, wild and frantic and violent._

_The door opens and the Asset lurches without thinking._

* * *

Bucky is nervous as he walks down the street, his eyes fixed on the bookstore on the corner. Over the past week he's finished all the books he has—Betty Smith's  _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ and  _Joy in the Morning_  have been his favourite so far—and he knows it's time to finally leave the apartment, even if it's to buy more novels so he can coop up at home again. He wants to buy  _The Wizard of Oz_ because he knows Steve used to read it to him when they were kids; he's hoping it'll trigger something because memories have been slow at appearing recently. If he's honest, he can feel the memories slipping away just as fast as they're resurfacing. He's scribbling everything down desperately in his notebooks, terrified that they'll leave him altogether and he'll turn back into the Soldat. Everything is foggy and it's starting to get difficult to sort through what's real and what's not. Some of the memories seem too good to be true. 

The ring of the bell when Bucky walks into the bookstore makes him jump and he inwardly curses himself for just how skittish he's being. He was the fucking Winter Soldier. He was stoic, strong and brave; nothing frightened him, nothing caught him by surprise, and he never called out, no matter how much pain he was in. Now, he just feels pathetic. The more time that passes, the more anxious he seems to become. He knows if it comes down to it, he can become the Soldier again. He's still strong. He can still switch these emotions off. He can still fight, even if it's to the death, because that's what he's been trained to do. The point is that he doesn't want to be or do any of that. He doesn't want to be what Hydra made him. He wants to be  _normal._ It just so happens that being normal is far more difficult than he expected, especially with all the horrors tearing him apart from the inside out.

He keeps his hands in his pockets as he walks down the aisles of books, occasionally leaning forward to read the title on the spine. He frowns when he comes across the  _Virgin Suicides_ and nervously reaches a gloved hand out to pull the book from the shelf. He thinks it sounds interesting, but decides it's not for him. He's excited when he reads the blurb for  _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy;_ it reminds him of the kind of book he read before the war. However, everything is ruined when he looks up to find the shopkeeper staring at him. Bucky's stomach drops, his heart beginning to beat frantically. He does the only thing he can think to do and walks, what seems like very calmly, out of the store.  _Don't run,_ is the number one rule when you're on the run. 

The world is spinning too quickly, Bucky's breaths are coming in short, sharp gasps. He needs to get out of the street, needs to get back to the apartment. There are tourists everywhere—that's the only problem with the Old Town—and Bucky could swear they're all staring at him. Hydra. They're all Hydra. The world is spinning, spinning, spinning, and Bucky's vision is beginning to blur. He can't  _breathe._

"Are you okay?" A young woman asks in Romanian.

Bucky gasps and lurches back when she touches his shoulder. He's touch-starved and hungry for comfort but it  _hurts,_ it hurts after so long and he doesn't know how to deal with the kindness. The feeling is razor sharp and his chest tightens even further. He squeezes his eyes closed and puts his arms out to keep her at a distance. He chants, _I'm fine, I'm fine,_ over and over again and when he opens his eyes, people really are staring at him. Hydra. Hydra. They're all Hydra.

He pulls hard at his hair until it hurts enough to give him some lucidity. Then, he turns and walks away as if nothing has happened, even though he still feels sick to his stomach and he wants to do nothing more than curl up in a dark room and scream. All he can think is  _stupid, stupid, stupid._ He's drawn attention to himself and now the soldier is sneering at him in his head, yelling at how feeble he is, how he's never going to get away with this, how he deserves to be caught again. He takes a deep breath and concentrates as hard as he can to make everything in his head go quiet, blank. He's had plenty of practice over the past couple of years; without it he thinks he would have ended his life a long time ago. The onslaught of images of all those he's killed is crippling and if he allowed his mind to taunt him with them every day, he's not sure what kind of monster would be left.

When he gets home he does what he always does when this happens. He pulls his notebooks out of his backpack and flicks through the pages, looks at all the good that's happened to him. He looks at the pictures of Stevie, the postcard images of him that he'd stolen from the Smithsonian. He curls up on the mattress and counts down from ten, over and over. He whispers,  _you're okay, you're okay,_ over and over too. He clears his mind, takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly through his mouth.  _It hurts. It hurts. It hurts._ He thinks of Stevie, remembers what he can, and the tightness in his chest loosens just a little.

* * *

_Bucky’s eyes are heavy lidded as he dances, his gaze intensely fixed on Steve even as his hands slip beneath the girl’s skirt. Steve always insists they go out dancing so people see them having fun with girls, hopefully erasing any whispers or rumors. Bucky went along with what Steve wanted, just like he always did, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for him. He enjoyed making Steve jealous. He enjoyed watching Steve clench his hands into fists, grind his teeth together and knock back one whiskey after another. What he doesn’t enjoy, however, is watching as a girl approaches Steve and leads him onto the dance floor. Suddenly the whole night becomes a hell of a lot less fun for him, even if Steve is flashing him a wide smile. Bucky knows how much this means to Steve, to finally have a girl ask him to dance. But still, it burns in a way that he can barely stand._

_Bucky watches as Steve tries to twirl her and then pull her flush against him, beginning to awkwardly sway them from side to side. Bucky hates how good the two of them look together; she's small and slender, her dark hair carefully curled to sit on her shoulders._ _Perfect for Steve really._ Puttin’ on the Ritz _is playing and Bucky harrumphs, annoyed. Jealousy claws its way up his throat and sinks hotly over his body; it's such an ugly feeling. He wants Steve all to himself. He wants him every way he can have him, every way no one else is allowed to._

 _He isn't used to this. He isn't used to being the one watching as Steve dances—and badly at that—with a dame. He hates it. He_ hates  _it._

* * *

_“So how’d you know this fella again?” Bucky asks as they walk up the steps of 117 Columbia Heights. It's a real nice building; white-painted brick walls, tall black door, a view out the back overlooking the East River and Lower Manhattan._

_“He’s in my 18 th century literature class. He said his parents were going into the city for the celebrations with some friends, so he was allowed a little party.” Steve replies._

_“Little party, huh?” Bucky quips with a smirk, eyes flickering up to where some girls were hanging out the third-story window and blowing him a kiss. “Don’t look so little to me, Stevie.”_

_“This is precisely the reason we never have gatherings at our place.” Steve mutters._

_“We couldn't have one even if we wanted to. Us two barely fit in our apartment, let alone a party.”_

_Steve has scarcely tapped his knuckles on the large glass door before it swings open to reveal an assortment of all kinds of people. There are boys in high-tailored suits, boys in their Sunday best, and plenty of boys walking around in sailors’ uniforms. The girls are beautiful; most of them dressed in long, sleek dresses in a variety of deep and dark shades, their eyes wide with laughter and their rouged lips curved up in exclamations of cheer and joy._

_“Bucky!” One of the girls yells, her voice a high and sweet note of song. “I didn’t know you were coming here! Why Mister Barnes, you should have told me.”_

_Steve watches in bemusement as Bucky takes one of the girl’s slender hands in his own larger one and bends over to place a gentle kiss against the knuckles. “Well you didn’t tell me either, now did you Miss Clara?”_

_A pretty blush spreads over Clara’s cheeks at the gentle caress of her name from Bucky’s lips. Steve rolls his eyes beside him even though they're in a lady's company. Clara touches the fingertips of her unoccupied hand to the soft blond waves of her shoulder-length hair, staring up at Bucky adoringly from beneath long, accentuated eyelashes. Bucky was entirely devoted to Steve, but he could see a fierce possessiveness slowly simmering beneath the surface of Steve's carefully masked expression._

_“Clara, I’d like you to meet my good friend, Steve Rogers. You’re very lucky to be meeting with him tonight; he is the best gentleman I have ever met and likely ever will. And Stevie, this is Miss Clara Ellis.”_

_Steve nods to her politely, a soft smile gracing his lips in an offer of friendship. “It’s wonderful to meet you, ma’am.”_

_Clara’s eyes widen as her gaze falls upon Steve and Bucky scowls slightly beside him, a tiny pursing and down turning of his lips that is probably invisible to anyone who doesn’t know every tiny, intricate detail of Bucky’s features and expressions. Steve looks around the room, diverting his eyes as he slumps. Bucky throws an arm over his shoulder protectively, anger suddenly surging to the surface. It's instantaneous, the way Steve relaxes and his eyes soften, the reminder that Bucky is still very aware of his presence soothing him. Steve has always needed Bucky's reassurance when this happened. Which, unfortunately, is all the time._

_“Well, I s‘pose I better go and find Heather and Timmy. Do come and find me later though, won’t you?” She says, her big, blue eyes darting between the two of them._

_“Most definitely.” Bucky says with a gentle nod, his smile tight but still kind looking._

_Steve and Bucky stay closely together as they navigate the crowd, their fingers brushing and caressing but never locking or entwining. It was one of those few totally innocent, loving gestures that they desperately wished they could do publically, but ultimately would never be able to._

_“Let’s get a drink.” Bucky whispers in his ear, his tongue taking the opportunity to flick against his earlobe. “He’s got Piel’s Beer, ain’t he?”_

_“I should think so. I’m fairly sure his father has a share in the company.” Steve replies._

_“Of course he does. How much you reckon the rent is for this place?”_

_“I don’t think they rent, Buck.”_

* * *

Sometimes, Bucky sleeps like the dead. The nights where he doesn't it's because he refuses to sleep. He's running on four hours across three days now and his head is pounding something awful. He knows he'd be hallucinating at this point if he didn't have the serum running through his veins, but occasionally he still feels like he's seeing things. It's 4am and after reading through  _Joy in the Morning_ for the third time since he's been back, he's beginning to feel irritated. He fumbles in his backpack until he finds his lighter and the pack of cigarettes he'd bought earlier in the day at the corner store. Since he remembered his old addiction to nicotine he's been smoking fairly regularly over the past six months. It calms him now, brings back memories of Brooklyn, fire escapes and tiring days working at the docks. He lays back, one arm folded beneath his head and one leg bent at the knee, and puts the cigarette between his lips, his eyes closing as he takes his first long, slow drag. It makes him feel light-headed and floaty and he relaxes back into the mattress. 

Bucky gets nightmares. Terrible, awful, vivid nightmares. He sees himself press a pillow over a little girl's face and he remembers watching blankly as her legs finally stopped kicking, her body finally stopped thrashing. He usually wakes with a blood-chilling scream, a cold sweat slicking his skin, and begins to breathe harshly. He throws things, breaks things, sometimes even hurts himself. After all, his metal arm can do more than just hurt other people. There's no one to tell him it's not okay and he's still not well enough to understand it himself. Hydra hurt him plenty. Pain is something he's used to. Pain is something that grounds him.

Bucky goes out into the streets, wanders around aimlessly in the dark. The air is cool and damp and he takes a deep breath, his eyes closing. He's so tired. He's so, so, tired. Sometimes, like tonight, he won't sleep because he's too afraid that he'll wake up the next morning as the Soldier. He's been feeling his presence more and more over the past couple of days and he's hoping if he concentrates hard enough that he'll be able to fight him off. If he sleeps, he'll lose his control. He knows deep down that it's not true. He knows he's got a handle on it, but it still terrifies him. He can't hurt anyone again. He just can't.

* * *

_Wedging a spare pillow beside Steve’s body, Bucky maneuvers himself from Steve grasp and slides out from under him as gently as he can. Steve always wakes up if he doesn’t have something to cling on to and Bucky really needs a moment alone to gather his thoughts. He’s been as strong as he can be for Steve, but inside he's barely holding it together. He doesn’t know where they're gonna go. They have no one to turn to and Bucky isn’t sure he has enough money to rent them a place of their own. He doesn’t want to take Steve to a flophouse where they’ll have to share a room with a load of other fellas. If they’ve been thrown out of Mr. O’Sullivan’s building for being together, they were damn well gonna find some place where they could really_ be _together. They weren’t hiding in their own home anymore. Although, Bucky thinks absently about how lucky they are that Mr. O'Sullivan hadn't pressed charges or anything._

_Bucky slips out the window onto the fire escape and carefully closes the window behind him. He pulls his packet of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket with shaking hands and puts a cigarette between his lips. His jaw twitches as he fights back the sob trying to climb up his throat and he pinches the bridge of his nose hard to give himself something else to focus on. He leans against the railings and stares down at the streets below; he always asked Frank to give him a room on one of the higher floors because he liked the feeling of vertigo when he looked down. The street is busy with the hustle and bustle and flow of men and women making their way home from work. Bucky wonders whether they're going out tonight, maybe going to a bar or going dancing. He doesn’t miss taking girls out per se, but he wishes he could take Steve dancing without ending up at the local station with a charge for social delinquency or maybe even sodomy._

_The summer heat is making his skin tacky with sweat, his hair beginning to flop and stick to his forehead. He can’t even find it in him to care what he looks like. He’d long ago stripped down to his undershirt, but even that was irritating his damp, salty skin now. He turns absentmindedly to open the window an inch or two to give Steve a breeze; he's still sleeping silently but he always woke up if he got too hot. Bucky drops the end of the cigarette through the metal grates and lights a second, ignoring the voice from below that hollers out a_ hey! _If Bucky just burnt someone with his cigarette butt, he can’t find it in himself to care._

_He's going to need to get another job; there's no doubt about it. He doesn’t want Steve to have to drop out of school, but they're going to need more money if they're going to scrape together enough money to pay rent every month. Bucky thinks fleetingly about gathering junk to sell, but he knows they'll only make a couple of pennies at best. That was something they’d done as children to buy sweets. It won’t do a lot of good now._

* * *

The first time he meets Alina is awkward and uncomfortable. 

“Young man, come here.” A croaky female voice calls from behind where Bucky is climbing the stairs. He turns around slowly, his hands clenched into fists. He immediately relaxes his aggressive stance when he sees the old woman standing in the open doorway of an apartment.

“No need to look so nervous. I have a bed I need moving and I thought you might be able to help. You seem to have plenty of weight behind you.” She says, her expression flat but not unkind. She's a tiny woman with black, sunken eyes and a pinched face; she looks strangely like a bird.

Bucky walks back down the flight of stairs and follows her inside the apartment, the hairs on the back of his neck raising as he gives a quick scan of the room to find all the possible exits. It all feels like a trap, but he knows in his gut that it's not. He flinches when he feels a hand touch his arm and inwardly curses himself for how skittish he's being.

“The bedroom is through here.” The woman says, opening a door beside the kitchen and walking inside. She lets Bucky follow behind at his own pace. “You’re a military man, aren’t you?” 

“Sort of.” Bucky says hoarsely. 

"My husband was in the military. He was killed by the Russians, God rest his soul."

"Sorry." Bucky mumbles. He swallows thickly as he thinks of the bunker in Siberia, his name—зимний солдат. He glances at the floor briefly, hiding his face as if he has something to be ashamed of. His mind is running away with itself again and Bucky grits his teeth as he wills it to quieten down.

"No need for that now; it's been an awfully long time." She says softly. "Now the bed... I want it on the far wall over here." 

Bucky nods obediently and pushes the bed across the room with ease. The old woman looks at him with wide eyes, but smiles easily when Bucky glances nervously at her. He isn't sure whether he should be showing her the true levels of his strength, but he figures many men would be able to move the piece of furniture just as easily. It wasn't exactly heavy and anyway, she seems harmless enough. Although he knows enough by now not to trust anyone, no matter how kind or innocent they seemed.

"Would you like some coffee? I have a pot on the stove."

"No thank you, ma'am." Bucky mutters, shifting on his feet and looking to the bedroom door. He's desperate to get out now.

"Well, thank you for your help then. I won't keep you any longer."

Bucky nods and quickly makes his escape.

 

The second time is much more successful. Bucky has had another couple of weeks to settle in and he's been slowly building some confidence again; it always took him a while when he moved to a new city.

Alina is standing in the doorway again when Bucky trudges up the stairs after his trip to the bookstore—a different one to the last time to save himself from another panic attack. "You seem in higher spirits today." She says.

Bucky smiles weakly at her; he's still learning how to do it. "Yes, ma'am."

"Are you ready to join me for coffee now? It gets lonely, being an old woman." 

Bucky feels unsure, but he nods anyway because something about Alina makes him desperate to not disappoint her. He doesn't understand it, but he also seems to have no control over it. No control frightens him, but the woman really does seem harmless. 

The apartment is bigger than his own: a full size kitchen, a separate bedroom, and a bathroom with a bathtub in it. It's in much better shape than his own and is decorated in the way one would expect from an older woman. The floor is made of wood like his own, but Alina has placed a large flowery rug of pinks and purples by the couch. The chairs are angled towards an old television and Bucky realises with astonishment that he knows the film. 

 _"Gone With The Wind."_ He murmurs to himself.

"That's right, dear. I'm surprised someone such as yourself has watched an old film like that." She replies, walking into the kitchen to make the coffee. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

Bucky does as he's told. He pays attention to the sounds in the other room, listening out for anything that signifies danger. He's pretty sure he's safe; all he can hear is a quiet humming.

"Do you take it black or with milk?" She calls out.

"Black, thank you."

A moment later, Alina walks back into the room with two large steaming mugs that are covered in pink floral patterns not so different from the rug. Bucky murmurs his thanks, taking the mug without really looking. He's too fixated on the television.

_No, I don't think I will kiss you_

"It's an old favourite of mine." Alina says.

_Although you do need kissing, badly_

Bucky remembers whispering the words into Steve's ear the night after they'd watched it at the pictures. He remembers kissing Steve breathless, kissing along his jaw and down his throat. He remembers thumbing at his nipples, biting and licking his way down his body, taking his hard cock into his mouth. 

 _Ah—_ Buck! _Please... Mm— Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!_

"Yeah, me too." Bucky whispers with a small smile on his face.

"Does it remind you of someone?"

Bucky nods. 

"Someone special? Someone who means a lot?"

Bucky says nothing in reply, just goes back to watching the movie and sipping at his coffee, but in his head he can't help but think,  _Someone who means everything._

* * *

_Steve leans against him heavily and Bucky grunts at the extra weight, the rough brick of the wall grating uncomfortably against his back. He gasps loudly, a hand quickly slapping over his mouth to smother the sound, when Steve shoves his hands down the front of his pants._

_“Mm, s’warm.” Steve murmurs, nuzzling at Bucky’s neck and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there._

_“Steve, are you crazy? We just ran because the cops busted into the bar, and you wanna do this here?”_

_Steve looks up at him with wide eyes, his pupils blown, and gives an innocent shrug. Bucky groans; saying no to his best friend has always been his greatest affliction. He can already picture the look of hurt and rejection on Steve’s face if he pushed him away now._

_“Just wanna make you feel good, Buck. I wanna make it good for you like you do for me.”_

_“Doll, you do make me feel good. You make me feel so, so good, baby. I swear.”_

_“Then let me…” He begins, his voice trailing off as he adjusts his hands inside Bucky’s pants, making it more than clear what he wanted to do._

_“Not here.” Bucky murmurs. “Home. We… we should go home.”_

_Steve huffs dramatically. “Fine.”_

_“Stop being such a baby.” Bucky laughs, shoving at Steve’s shoulders the moment his hands are back out into the cold night air._

_“You jerk_ _! What was that for?” Steve asks when his shoulder blades hit the opposite wall with a little more force than Bucky had intended. He immediately feels bad for it, but he knows Steve will be angry if he apologises._

_Bucky shrugs. “Trying to get us killed.”_

_“Not like you haven’t done it to me before.” Steve says, a smirk twisting his lips sinfully._

_Bucky notices the dangerous glint in Steve’s eyes the minute it appears and starts to put his hands up defensively, but it is too late. Steve shoves at him, kicking at his ankles, and then runs down the alley the moment Bucky starts to chase him. They dart across the road, weaving between the cars that honked at them in indignation, Bucky beating his hand down on the hood of a new Ford model that barely stops in time, its tires squealing in protest. They run up Jay Street with huge, delighted smiles on their faces, panting as they push themselves harder and harder. Bucky tries to slow Steve down countless times, but Steve won't listen. Bucky slows down instead and lets Steve run ahead of him. They both know Bucky's losing on purpose, but neither of them points out the lie. Eventually Bucky catches up with him and gives him a light shove at his shoulder. The two of them walk home side by side, their eyes shining with laughter._

* * *

Bucky likes to sit by the river. The Splaiul Independenței isn't much to look at, not with the concrete banks, but something about it calms him. He thinks about Steve when he's there. He thinks about the last time he saw him, when he'd left him on the side of the Potomac. He knows the man with the wings must have found him because Bucky visited Steve in the hospital; not that anyone knows about that. He thinks about the times when, as kids, Steve and Bucky would go to the park and stare across the East River, excited by the idea of Manhattan on the other side. There's not a lot to be excited about nowadays, but he feels calm here, almost happy. To Bucky, that is more than enough.

* * *

_"All rivers, even the most dazzling, those that catch the sun in their course, all rivers go down to the ocean and drown. And life awaits man as the sea awaits the river."_

_—S. Schwarz-Bart_

Bucky thinks,  _knows,_ his time is coming. They're coming. They're coming.

Unless... Unless _he_ gets to him first.

The Captain. His Stevie.

Bucky sits in his apartment silently, waiting for something awful to happen. But it doesn't. He feels calm. It is a good day.

* * *

When Bucky wakes up, he's disorientated to say the least. He'd been laying sprawled on his back, his head at a strange angle so that now he has a painful crook in his neck. He throws his fists around for a couple of seconds and then realises he's alone, in his apartment, _safe._ It's dark outside; Bucky must have slept all day. He gets up slowly from the mattress, his limbs heavy and sore, and makes his way over to the kitchenette. He fills a rusty saucepan with water and puts it on the stove to make coffee. He rubs at his eyes with his fists and tries to blink away the sleep. For once he'd actually managed to get through the night with no nightmares. He'd slept through the whole night, but he can't decide whether he feels any better rested. He seems to be in a constant state of tiredness.

"Yasha!" A hoarse voice calls out.

Bucky turns the stove off and moves slowly to the door, cautious as he opens it.

"It's just me." Bucky recognises that voice. It's Alina. "Come on now, boy. You don't have to hide."

Bucky steps out of the apartment and leans over the railing to peek at the old woman two floors below him. "Yes, ma'am."

"Are you going to the market today? My leg's bothering me something awful and I wanted some plums to make a pie."

Bucky nods. "I can get them for you."

"Good boy."

Bucky is just turning to go back inside when he hears her voice again.

"I'm not going to tell anyone you're here you know. Your secret is safe with me."

Bucky freezes, his eyes burning with the tears he's unable to shed. "Thank you, ma'am."

He doesn't understand how the woman knows he's running. He knows she can't understand who he is, otherwise she would have screamed in terror the moment she saw him. But it's nice all the same to know that at least one person cares enough to have his back, even if said person is an eighty year-old woman that can barely walk, let alone do anything to actually help him. He trusts her, and he hasn't trusted anyone in a long time. At least, not anyone who wasn't brainwashing him into a forced loyalty. The very thought of forming an attachment to Alina scares him to high hell. It goes against everything he's taught himself. Who's to say she's not a spy? Bucky can't shake his training, can't shake that voice in his head screaming to shoot her between the eyes, taking any knowledge of his fugitive state with her. Bucky just wanted to hide, but now he's become a person to someone. He isn't the asset here with Alina. He's a person, and that terrifies him.

* * *

Bucky can tell something is different before he even opens the door. He clenches his metal hand into a fist and silently opens the door with the other, ready to lunge if he has to, ready to kill. But then...

_Steve._

"Hey, Buck."

Bucky stares at him, any words he might have planned for this moment dying in his throat. It's good to see him in the flesh. It is. But he wanted to do this on his own terms. He wanted to do this when he was _ready._

"Bucky?"

"You're Steve." He says. It's stupid and basic, but he doesn't know how to voice anything else. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm Steve."

Bucky shifts on his feet and stares at a spot on the wall, his heart rate picking up with the uneasiness of the situation.

"You remember me, right? You've written it all down."

"How did you—"

"You left a notebook on top of the fridge. I wasn't sure whether you were still here or not."

"I'm here." He says shortly, irritated. "You shouldn't have touched them. You shouldn't be here."

"I'm exactly where I should be. I'm sorry about the journals but I had to be sure it was you."

"I don't want you here. You're a target."

"Buck, I'm here to help. The C.I.A... they're not far behind. We've gotta get you outta here."

"I haven't done anything."

Steve gives him a small, sad smile. "It doesn't matter. They're coming and they're not gonna listen to whatever we have to say. We've gotta go."

Bucky nods shortly and looks down. 

Steve takes a step closer and reaches out to touch him, but the moment Bucky flinches he lets his arm fall back down to his side. "I'm sorry."

Bucky shakes his head sharply. "Don't. Not your fault, 's just me."

Steve nods. "I won't do anything you don't want me to, pal."

"You can— I want you to. Just... slow, okay?"

When Steve walks towards him and puts his arms out, Bucky doesn't move away this time, he holds very still, his body wracked with tension. Steve closes the difference and pulls Bucky against his solid chest, his arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. Bucky can't reciprocate, doesn't know how, but after a couple of minutes he lets go and just _slumps._

"I missed you, Buck." Steve whispers in his ear, his voice wobbly.

"Missed you too, Stevie." Bucky croaks.

And then he breaks. It starts off as a whimper, the strong arms around him, comforting him, too much for him to handle. He remembers being held, by family, by girls, and then always by Steve, but the reality of it is far more overwhelming than he could have ever imagined. 

He holds onto Steve and he  _howls._ He realises he hasn't broken down yet. Not once. He didn't think he knew how to anymore but now it's like a dam has broken and he's terrified because he doesn't know how to make it  _stop._

 _"Shh..._ Buck. It's okay. It's okay." Steve whispers.

But it's not okay. Everything is  _far_ from okay. He's in a living nightmare and they're coming to get him. He's gonna go back in that chair and they're going to take it all away again. All the painstaking nights trying to remember and the horror that came when he actually did. All of it, for nothing.

Bucky can feel a gentle pressure at his temple, and it takes him a moment to realise that Steve is pressing kisses there. He hiccups and pushes his face into Steve's shoulder. Steve is cradling the back of his head and he walks Bucky backwards until he's pressed against the wall so they can get even closer to one another and Steve can prop him up. Bucky can barely breathe between the pressure of Steve against his chest and the sobs racking his body, but he needs this.  _God_ does he need this.

He has Steve pinning him to the wall and he cries and cries and cries because Steve is holding him tight, will always be able to take the weight, and he feels safe.

_He feels safe._

"I'm s-sorry." Bucky sobs.

"I know you are, baby."

And doesn't that just make it worse? Bucky isn't Steve's baby anymore. Never will be. He can't give himself over to Steve. Not when he has this permanent target over his head, this baggage. Although, Steve, the stubborn punk, is probably in just as much trouble as he is now. 

"They're after you t-too, aren't they?"

"Yeah, Buck. But that doesn't matter. I need this, even if it's only for today. After that they can do what they want with me."

"You're so  _stupid."_

"I know."

Bucky tilts his chin a little and nuzzles against Steve's cheek, their stubble catching against one another a little uncomfortably. " _Stevie."_

"I'm here. I ain't going nowhere. Not without you."

Bucky presses a gentle kiss to Steve's jaw, but then he can't stop. He's pressing kisses all over Steve's face, doesn't think he'll ever stop, but then Steve tilts his head just so and their lips lock. Bucky whimpers against Steve's mouth as they open under each other, Steve's taste so familiar it makes Bucky gasp. He's tentative when he prods Steve's lips with his tongue, and then melts against him when Steve opens his mouth and begins to massage their tongues together. Bucky's breathing picks up rapidly until he's panting, desperate, into Steve's mouth. He tries to speed their kisses up, but Steve keeps it slow, rubbing small circles against Bucky's jaw with his thumbs. They break apart when they can no longer breathe and it feels devastating to Bucky that he can no longer feel Steve's lips against his.

"Why do you have to be so wonderful?" Bucky chokes out. "Why couldn't you have just left me alone?"

"Because I'm with you to the end of the line, pal. You know I don't break promises."

Bucky dips his head and buries his face in the space where Steve's neck meets his shoulder.  _Safe._ He feels _safe._

"Come on. We gotta go." Steve whispers, stroking his fingers through Bucky's hair.

Bucky stares up at Steve a little hesitantly, sad at the prospect of leaving his apartment and never seeing Alina again. But this is _Steve._

"You promise you won't leave me?"

"I promise, baby."

"Okay. Okay, lets go."

* * *

_"You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting."_

— J.M. Barrie

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://enochianess.tumblr.com) and [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCASBQ68lbb2CWPhhZuRmC_A)
> 
> If you liked it, please leave kudos! 
> 
> Comments are always very appreciated and inspiring.


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